Call Girl Confidential (2 page)

I balked and frowned a bit.

“I'm a little busy here,” I said.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a wallet. He flipped it open, and a gold badge glinted in the fluorescent lights overhead.

Adrenaline surged through my body. My worlds had just collided.

The detective spoke with me briefly. He wanted me to come with him, but when I told him that I had my scheduled time with my daughter, Isabella, he decided to let me go home and be with her. But he told me to report to Manhattan district attorney
Robert Morgenthau's office first thing in the morning. Morgenthau, whose father had been FDR's Treasury secretary and the architect of the New Deal, had ruled Manhattan law enforcement for thirty-four years. He was eighty-nine years old but still sharp and straight as an X-Acto knife.

I couldn't sleep all night. I had been leading a double life for years. I was a single mom, a PTA board member, and an escort. Keeping that a secret is a lot harder than you may think. Switching mentally from “work” mode to Mommy mode made me feel I could physically split into two pieces at any time. I couldn't take any chances that anyone knew. I knew this because there had been people in my life I had trusted who had turned on me with lies and painful actions that could never be taken back. Their actions would continue to hurt my family.

My daughter's father was one of those people. And as a mother, I had learned that when it comes to your children, when you are backed into a corner with no way out, you will do things you never dreamed you were capable of doing to fight for your loved ones. Isabella's father and I were in court over ridiculous accusations that I was an unfit mother and she should not be in my home. He wanted to take her away from me, and I wasn't about to let that happen. No matter what.

I
sabella's father is a rock star—let's call him Mike—who never lived with us, yet he paid child support and saw her regularly. One day he simply didn't bring her home. He had kidnapped her, and I soon learned he had moved in court to gain full custody. Mike hired one of the most powerful family law attorneys in New York City—and one of the most expensive. I guess he did the math and thought it was a better deal than paying child support for ten more years. He claimed that a young man I had staying with us temporarily was a danger to our daughter.

Mike had gotten married one month before he went for custody. Ultimately, the marriage lasted less than a year, but his new wife was very close to Isabella—so close that it made me uncomfortable. I cannot deny that his wife loved my daughter. She loved her tremendously. But when the court proceedings began, I truly felt that they wanted to take me out of my daughter's life entirely so Mike's wife could be her new mother.

I fought back hard. They took that as a sign of mental instability; they called me crazy and whatever else fit the agenda at the time. Any mother would have felt the same as I did. When Mike's wife left him, I figured out that he was feeding the lies to everyone. I wasn't perfect, but I wasn't the monster he was making me out to be. (His wife realized this, and I saw how my daughter had relied on her during my absence; Isabella still needed her love, and it would hurt her to lose it. To this day I still encourage the relationship between them, and they are extremely close.) I refused to allow a divorce from Mike and his judgment to hurt my daughter. He blew the situation way out of proportion. Anyone who truly knew me, knew that. But a judge bought his story, and I lost custody of the daughter I had raised alone since birth. She was six years old at the time.

I had seen mega-lawyer Eleanor Alter on television during the Woody Allen case. She had represented Mia Farrow after the filmmaker had an affair with Mia's adopted daughter Soon-Yi Previn, and Alter went after Woody with a vengeance. She won full custody for Mia of their son, Ronan, the only biological child Woody ever had.

I went to see Alter in her office and told her of my plight. She was willing to help—for a price. A very high price.

“My fee is $750 an hour,” she told me. I guess she could
easily get that from all the rich moguls in New York dumping their first wives for trophies, and then dumping the trophies for even younger trophy wives. That included time spent on phone calls and paperwork, and for work done by junior attorneys at the firm. I was soon getting legal bills for several thousand dollars at a time, bills that I could not support with my executive assistant's job. These bills were simply to try to hammer out an agreement about holidays and the normal weekday and weekend schedule. I was furious. I was more than furious, because no one knew better than I did that he was just messing with me. He was trying to control me. He didn't really want all those hours with Isabella. He would never and could never honor any agreement we ever put together because of his “traveling” and “touring” schedule. I couldn't hold it against him if his business required him to be away so much, but my point was that it was impossible for him to honor any parental agreement because of this. Isabella was with me all the time, and I was fighting him all the way. He wanted to take special moments away from Isabella and me and start his own. We had traditions that clearly meant nothing to him.

His girlfriends came and went, and so did my money. One court appearance could cost $8,000 or $9,000. The custody hearings could go on for days. I realized that what I was making at my day job wasn't enough. Not even close. I couldn't even cover a single day in court.

I asked my mother for a loan, and told her I'd pay her back. She wouldn't give me any of her money, even for her granddaughter's sake. She claimed she didn't have it. I believed her.

I cashed out my 401(k), my pension, and Isabella's college fund. That was my future and hers, but this was a fight for my
daughter's life, and that was what mattered. That money ran out fast too.

I then started selling everything of value in my home on Craigslist and eBay. When the legal bills came, that money, too, evaporated.

I realized I had better do something. I'm not saying I'm proud of it, but while I was on Craigslist, I started looking at ads for a second job. Personal assistants, part-time, anything that would supplement the full-time position I had. What they were paying for these jobs that mostly women took was depressing. I felt defeated.

I had a friend whom I cried and cried to about this. She said, “It looks as if there is no way out. You are going to lose her, and he is going to win.”

That really made me mad. When and why had this become about “winning”? My daughter was not a prize that you won at the end of a game. She was my heart, my precious child who for more reasons I can ever list I would do anything for.

I was desperate. I clicked on the category entitled “Models Wanted” and started reading all these ads about how a girl can make thousands of dollars in weeks. Just reply, they said. So many of them were worded very generally in order to skirt the state laws, but I got the picture: anyone making that kind of money every single week is not really a model. Unless you're Gisele Bündchen. And they're not looking for the world's next supermodel on Craigslist.

No, these Craigslist ads were not for models. They were for sex workers. And I answered one of them, fully aware of what I would be asked to do. I dove into the dark side, and it was so near. It was right there on Craigslist, just a few clicks away.

I answered this particular ad because of the way it was
worded. It read that a female who understood and related to her staff ran it. The money would be about $10,000 a week, depending on how hard a girl wanted to work. It was all up to the girl. It said, “Call or email to set up an interview, and please have an understanding of the business.” And that is how I met one of the most infamous madams in New York: Kristin Davis.

I went to her apartment in the Corinthian, the tallest residential building in New York City when it was erected in 1988 by developer Bernard Spitzer. Later, I found that ironic when his son and one of my johns, New York governor Eliot Spitzer, was outed as “Client No. 9.”

I was very nervous about the appointment. I had no idea what to wear to this kind of job interview. I remember wearing a pair of light-brown pants, a cream-colored blouse, heels, and light makeup, a bit of jewelry. I was meeting her after my day job coming from downtown, and I took the subway in that beautiful outfit—I was that broke.

Kristin swung open the door and welcomed me in in that brassy, outgoing manner of hers, and the first thing that struck me about her was that her breasts were gigantic. She must have worn a 48DD bra. There was no way they weren't implants. She looked as if she'd had major work done on her face as well, even though she claimed to be just thirty-five. But she was extremely nice and seemed far more intelligent than she looked. She'd actually been the vice president of a hedge fund before, shall we say, transitioning careers.

I said I'd just come from my job in the Financial District.

“No problem,” she said. “A lot of my girls work on Wall Street.”

Her “girls”?
I thought. What was I getting myself into?

I guess she was giving me the once-over as well, and I must have passed muster. Boys always seemed to notice me in school. I do have curves, and I've always worked to stay in shape. And the Lord did bless me with straight, light-blond hair, which I wear all the way down to the small of my back. One of my boyfriends once called me Lady Godiva.

I must have seemed as nervous as I felt, because Kristin offered me a glass of wine. She asked me a little bit about myself and then she started to explain the business.

“Are you interested in ‘outcall' or ‘incall' work?” she asked.

I had no idea what she was talking about. I was completely naïve. She saw that, and chuckled.

“Basically, it is what it sounds like,” she said. “I have a nice cozy place, and some of my girls meet gentlemen there. We call those ‘incalls.' ”

I guess that's what people call a brothel,
I thought to myself.

“We also have a lot of clients who like the girl to come over to their own apartment,” Kristin continued. “Yes, that's what I said: they have sex right in the same bed they sleep in with their wife. I don't know where the hell the wife is at the time, but we haven't been caught yet. Anyway, that would be their problem.

“Other men prefer hotel rooms. Nice hotel rooms. We're talking the Waldorf, the Pierre, and the Regency. You might go out to dinner with him first, so you have to dress nicely. We call these ‘outcalls.' ”

Wine or no wine, what Kristin said only made me more nervous. I was raised in a strict Christian home, and I had hardly even had any boyfriends in my life. I got pregnant with Isabella at the early age of twenty-one and had barely dated since. How was I going to go to a room in a fancy hotel and have sex with a
complete stranger? What if he wanted to do some kinky thing that would freak me out? What if he tried to hurt me?

Kristin has a big, charismatic personality. She's a little like that legendary speakeasy owner Texas Guinan, who'd greet people in her club by saying, “Hello, suckers!”

Kristin has a very open mind about sex, and thinks our society is way behind other countries. She says that the lawmakers who keep prostitution laws on the books and enforce them are some of her biggest clients. Look at Spitzer. When he was New York State attorney general, he prosecuted a tour company that took men to countries where prostitution is condoned. Kristin calls such pols hypocrites. You may have seen her on TV, calling for prostitution to be legalized. She even ran for governor on that platform.

Kristin cajoled me, trying to allay my fears.

“Look, honey,” she said, “if you're going to date men you don't even know that well, like all girls do these days, you might as well be paid for it. And paid well. Do you realize how much my gals are making in a week? One just saved enough to buy herself a racehorse. And with your looks, you could do very well for yourself. How about it?”

Without telling her my reason, I really had no choice. Nobody could help me get my daughter back but me.

“I'll try it,” I said meekly.

“That's my girl!” she exulted. “Now let me tell you about my little bag of tricks.”

Kristin proceeded to tell me lots of different things that she had taught the other girls to do—things that would make the clients keep coming back for more, and once they were there, things that would stretch the session out, make it go longer, even hours longer. The client would be happy, but so would we, because he
would be charged more. That meant more money for Kristin as well as for me, since she would split it with me right down the middle. Kristin was going to take a 50 percent cut of whatever I did.

I wondered:
What will I have in my bag of tricks?

K
ristin called me within two days.

“OK, girl, are you ready to rock and roll?” she chirped. “I've got somebody nice for you at the Parker Méridien.”

Le Parker Méridien! Skylit swimming pool, Central Park views, spa. I used to cut through its columned lobby from West Fifty-Sixth Street to West Fifty-Seventh just for a luxe moment in a harried day. Now I was being asked to go meet a complete stranger there to have sex.

“Room 3606,” Kristin continued in businesslike fashion. “Just go right to the elevator casually like you're a guest and up to his room; don't stop by the concierge desk to be announced. His
name is Stephen. He sounds like he's got plenty of dough, so take your time.”

“Kristin,” I mewled. “I don't know if I can do this.”

No matter how fancy the hotel or how big the payment, it still felt . . . cheap. If I did it, I would have to get out of this “line of work” as soon as I possibly could.